LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

girl again.

      She rallied all her most official mannerisms together.

      "It's quite impossible for me to differentiate between the various members of the staff, or to make any unofficial advances to any of them."

      "Very well, my dear. As, thank Heaven, I'm not a member of your staff, I can remain as unofficial as I please, and have nice little Miss Jones out to see me."

      "Mother," said Char in an agony, "it's simply impossible. The girl would never know her place in the office again; and think of all the cackling there'd be at the Questerham Hostel about my asking any one out to Plessing. Johnnie, do tell her it's out of the question."

      Trevellyan looked at Joanna with a laugh in his blue eyes. He realized, as Char would never realize, that her assumption of officialdom always provoked her mother to the utterance of ironical threats which she had never the slightest intention of fulfilling.

      She shrugged her shoulders slightly at her daughter's vehemence, and crossed over to where Grace Jones was putting on her coat and hat again.

      "Good-night. I hope you're not as tired as you look," she said with a sort of abrupt graciousness.

      "Oh no, thank you. It's been an extra busy night. It was so kind of you to help."

      "I wish I could come again," said Lady Vivian rather wistfully, "but I don't know that I shall be able to."

      Lesbia Willoughby, dashing past them at full speed, found time to fling a piercing rebuke over her shoulder.

      "There's always a will where there's a way, Joanna. Look at me!"

      Neither of them took advantage of the invitation, and Joanna said irrelevantly: "I should like you to come and see me, if you will, but I know you're at work all day. I must try and find you next time I come into Questerham."

      "Thank you very much," said Grace in a pleased voice. "I should like that very much indeed. Good-night."

      "Good-night," repeated Joanna, and went back to where her daughter, with a rather indignant demeanour, was waiting for her.

      "Well?" asked Char, rather sullenly.

      Lady Vivian, who almost invariably became flippant when her daughter was most in earnest, said provokingly: "Well, my dear, I've made arrangements for all sorts of unofficial rendezvous. You may see Miss Delmege at Plessing yet."

      "Miss Delmege is a very good worker," said Char icily. "She's very much in earnest, always ready to stay overtime and finish up anything important."

      "I'm sure Miss Jones is good at her job, too," said Trevellyan, supposing himself to be tactful.

      "Fairly good. Not extraordinarily quick-witted, though, and much too sure of herself. I can't help thinking it's rather a pity to distinguish her from the others, mother; she's probably only too ready to take airs as it is, if she's of rather a different class."

      "Fiddlesticks!" declared Lady Vivian briskly. "Put on your coat, Char, and come along. I can't keep the car waiting any longer. Rather a different class indeed! What has that to do with it? The girl's most attractive—an original type, too."

      "Of course, if mother has taken one of her sudden violent fancies to this Jones child, I may as well make up my mind to hear nothing else, morning, noon, or night," Char muttered to John Trevellyan, who replied with matter-of-fact common sense that Char wasn't at Plessing for more than an hour or two on any single day, let alone morning, noon, and night.

      "Char," said Lady Vivian from the car, "if you don't come now I shall leave you to spend the night at the Questerham Hostel, where you'll lose all your prestige with the staff, and have to eat and sleep just like an ordinary human being."

      The Director of the Midland Supply Depôt got into her parent's motor in silence, and with a movement that might have been fairly described as a flounce.

      The members of the staff walked up the street towards the Hostel.

      "Who was the lady in black who helped with the trays?" asked Grace. "She was so nice."

      "My dear, didn't you know? That was Miss Vivian's mother!"

      "Oh, was it?" said Grace placidly. "I didn't know that. Miss Vivian isn't very like her, is she?"

      "No. Of course, Miss Vivian's far better looking. I'm not saying it because it's her," added Miss Delmege with great distinctness, for the benefit of Miss Marsh and Mrs. Potter, walking behind, from one of whom a sound of contemptuous mirth had proceeded faintly. "It's simply a fact. Miss Vivian is far better looking than Lady Vivian ever was. Takes after her father—Sir Piers Vivian he is, you know."

      Miss Delmege had only once been afforded a view of the back of Sir Piers Vivian's white head in church, but she made the assertion with her usual air of genteel omniscience.

      At the Hostel Mrs. Bullivant was waiting for them. It was past eleven o'clock, and the fire had gone out soon after eight; but in spite of cold and weariness, Mrs. Bullivant was unconquerably bright.

      "Come along; I'll have some nice hot tea for you in a moment. The kettle is on the gas-ring. I am sorry the fire's out, but it smoked so badly all the evening I thought I'd better leave it alone. Sit down; I'm sure you're all tired."

      "Simply dead," exclaimed Miss Marsh. "So are you, aren't you, Plumtree, after all those awful plates and dishes—I must say your washing-up job is the worst of the lot."

      "I'm going to bed. I can't keep on my feet another minute, tea or no tea. If I don't drag myself upstairs now I never shall. It's fatal to sit down; one can't get up again."

      "That's right," assented Miss Marsh. "I'll bring up your tea when I come, dear."

      "Angel, thanks awfully. Good-night, ladies and gentlemen."

      Miss Plumtree left the sitting-room with this languidly facetious valediction.

      "That girl does look tired. I hope she gets into bed quickly," observed Mrs. Potter, pulling off her hat and exposing a rakishly décoiffé tangle of wispy hair.

      "Not she—she'll dawdle for ages," prophesied Miss Marsh. "Still, it's something if she gets into her dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, out of her corsets, you know."

      Miss Delmege put down her cup of tea.

      "Rather a strange subject we seem to be on for mealtime, don't we?" she remarked detachedly to Grace.

      "Meal-time?" exclaimed Miss Henderson derisively.

      "That's what I said, dear, and I'm in the habit of meaning what I say, as far as I know."

      "I really don't know how you can call it meal-time when we're not even at table. Besides, if we were, there's nothing in what Marsh said—absolutely nothing at all."

      "Oh, of course, some people see harm in anything," burst out Miss Marsh, very red. "The harm is in their own minds, is what I say, otherwise they wouldn't see any."

      "That's right," agreed Miss Henderson, but below her breath.

      Miss Delmege turned with dignity to her other neighbour.

      "I may be peculiar, but that's how I feel about it. I imagine that you, as a married woman, will agree with me, Mrs. Potter?"

      Mrs. Potter did not agree with her at all, but something in the appeal, some subtle hint of the dignity of Mrs. Potter's position amongst so many virgins, caused her to temporize feebly.

      "Really, Miss Delmege, you mustn't ask me. I—I quite see with you—but at the same time—there wasn't anything in what Miss Marsh said, now, was there? I mean, really. Simply corsets, you know."

      Nearly every one had by this time forgotten exactly what Miss Marsh had said, and only retained a general impression of licentiousness in conversation.

      "We're all girls together," exclaimed Miss Marsh furiously.

      "Gentlemen in the room would be a very different thing," Miss Henderson supported

Скачать книгу